Taste The Blood Of Burnsula!
by Fionn Whelan
Summary: COMPLETE. Based on Taste The Blood of Dracula starring Christopher Lee. Main character: Eric from Simpsons Generations. Some humor, some horror. Warning: Violence and minor language. If you read a fanfic and don't post a review, then you're a thief!
1. Prologue: Ol' Gil Gets All The Bad Luck

Intro

The old carriage jostled and jumped as it raced down the dark and lonely road. The horses' sides heaved and threw their weight into their harnesses, and the coachman cracked his whip with increasing frequency. They did not wish to be on that road at night.

"So, uh, where's you guys from, around here?" Old Gil asked.

His fellow travelers remained silent, as they had been for the entire journey.

"Yeah, uh, I'm from America. Springfield, actually. Nice place. I've been travellin', sellin' stuff, buyin', tradin', borrowin'. I got a job at this…this way cool antique store. Look-" and he held up a shrunken head, "Got this in New Guinea. This, this gun, an old army pistol, Crimean War era, traded a box of antique china dolls and a gold chalice for it in Budapest. Oh, and this, this old book. Guy said it was some sorta' spellbook. I bought in Visaria."

One of the passengers, a young man with crazed eyes, looked at the book, his face bearing a mixture of disgust and longing. The older man who sat next to him set his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Oh, uh, you like it?"

No answer.

"I can let ya have it for two-hundred fifty euros."

The man made a strange grimace, as though he had become sick to his stomach.

"Er, one…seventy then?"

"Eh! Eh!" the man gasped, reaching for the book. Gil pulled back, keeping the book out of the man's reach. "G-g-give!"

"You'd better give him that book," the other passenger said.

"Fifty?"

They lunged forward and seized the book from his hands. Before he could utter a word, Gil was shoved out of the carriage. He rolled ears-over-heels before collapsing in a heap. He looked up, blinking out the tears and dust, and saw his bags of luggage and merchandise go flying out the back of the carriage. Getting to his feet, he dusted himself off and began to collect his things.

"Ol' Gil always get stuck with all the bad luck."

A wolf howled in the distance. Gil gulped, and began to wander about the woods. He was soon lost, and found himself looking up at a dark castle that stood in the distance. Curious, and hoping that he might find something of value to old Mr. Lee, he headed for the castle.

As he drew nearer, Gil heard the blast of gunfire and the howling of wolves. The icy mountain wind picked up, and he smelt blood.

He reached the castle wall. Inching along it, he crept up to the open gate. He heard a machine gun rattling, swords clashing, and the screams of the dieing and wounded. Taking a deep breathe to steady his nerves, he peered around the corner. What he saw scared him as he had never been scared before. Wolves as big as gorillas were devouring men. Bats with enormous, leathery wings like umbrellas and human faces were swooping here and there. A group of men and women were fighting them with swords and knives and crucifixes. Gil looked away, and sank down the wall in shock.

"This cannot be. This…isn't…this can't be real."

A scream, a sound like a soul being torn in two, shook him from his state of shock. He looked around the corner once more. He saw several people, two of whom he recognized as Marge and Homer Simpson, attacking a man in long, red robes. He watched as his broken, bloodied body sank to the ground. He then saw the body reform, as though by magic. He recognized the man as Mr. Burns…_But he's been dead for fifteen years…hasn't he?_ Burns rose in the air, and seemed to be yelling something that Gil couldn't quite make out for the wind and the gunfire. He shot forward like a rocket, then froze, hovering in mid-air. He seemed to be stopped by something, but Gil couldn't see it, as the cluster of coaches and wagons in the centre of the courtyard blocked his view. Burns sank to the ground, his arms outstretched, then burst into flames. Several people in the furious fray dropped dead, and others exploded as Burns had done. The bear-like wolves squealed, and rolled about in the snow. Their fur fell from their skin, and their features became human. The stood, looked about confusedly, and then ran from the courtyard, and became wolves once more.

Gil inched into the courtyard, looking around. Small fires blazed here and there, castingt their flickering red light on the bullet-riddled walls. He came to the spot where Burns had been. Amongst the ashes, he found Burns' red cape. The felt around the snow and ashes, and found two rings. One was a gold ring with a red signet setting, the emblem of a dragon, the other was black, and shaped like a bat, with its spread rings forming the band. He pocketed the rings, and leaned back on his hand. He felt something warm and wet. He looked at his hand; it was stained with dark liquid.

"B-b…blood! The Blood of Mr. Burns!"

Fionn Whelan presents _The Simpsons_ in '_**Taste the Blood of Burnsula!**'_

It has been six years since Burns was last slain. The Springfield Nine, having made millions, received a Grammy, and suffering numerous lawsuits for unauthorized sampling, have retired. Eric is sixteen, and going out with Felicia DeGeorge. I'll say no more…except:

'The Simpsons', all names and places therein, and the plots and dialogue of the television episodes and authorized books and comics belong to Matt Groening/20th Century Fox. Eric, Felicia DeGeorge, and the DeGeorge family, as well as all other related characters and plot elements are the intellectual property of 'Simpsons Generations' and their author. All original characters, plot points, jokes, not from the aforementioned sources or other fan fictions Fionn Whelan, all rights reserved.

'Taste the Blood of Dracula' starring Christopher Lee, a Hammer Studios film, distributed by Warner Bros. Studios. Very good movie, see it if you can before reading this!


	2. Any Given Sunday

Second Sunday

It was a sunny day. A Sunday. Church bells rang throughout Springfield, signaling the end of the various sundry services, Masses, and rituals they had attended. At the First Church of Springfield, the worshippers filed out, chatting, shaking hands, and making plans for breakfasts, lunches, and brunches. The DeGeorge family shook hands with the minister, Caleb Russell, and Mr. and Mrs. DeGeorge made small talk and flattery while Felicia, their daughter, stood patiently, her mind decidedly elsewhere.

Felicia saw the Skinners, and rushed over to say high to Arlene, their daughter. Her brother, Arnie Skinner, came out of the church with the Quimbys, talking and laughing loudly. Arlene blushed as she saw John Quimby, Freddy Quimby's son. He was one of the more popular boys at school, and was said to have a crush on her. After some chit-chat, mostly about the Joey Allen's annual party that, though two weeks away, was already the main topic, their parents tugged them away and they said their goodbyes until the morrow, when they would see each other at school.

The DeGeorge family walked down the sunny lane, sweating slightly as the bright mid-morning sun shone upon their stiff and stuffy Sunday clothes. As they walked, the clanging bells of their church faded, blending into the holy cacophony that was Sunday morning in Springfield, USA. As they continued on towards their home on 738 Evergreen Terrace, one of the countless chimes grew clearer, and louder. They saw St. Andrew's Roman Catholic Church, its parishioners lingering around the front steps to chat with Fr. Molloy and one another, and…the Simpsons.

The DeGeorges had always held the Simpson family in very low regard. Whether it was the shabbiness of their home, the rowdiness of their children, the husband's drunken escapades that were stuff of town legend, or the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson had wed under less than honourable circumstances, the DeGeorges considered their neighbors 'beneath them'. Felicia, however, had never agreed with her parents' assessment of their neighbors, and had long been good friends with the youngest Simpson child, a boy her age named Eric. Her parents never approved of the friendship to begin with, but now that both children were approaching adulthood and were beginning to look at the opposite sex, and each other, with a new, more mature interest, they did their very best to keep the two separate.

Felicia saw him. Knowing that she had noticed the boy, her father set his hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight, telling her firmly 'No!'. Felicia darted forward to speak to Eric.

"Felicia!"

"Hey Eric," she said smiling.

"Hi," he replied, smiling shyly.

"Oh, hello Felicia!" Eric's mother Marge beamed.

"Can I meet you sometime?" she asked in a desperate whisper, aware of her parents' burgeoning rage.

"Tonight, after your parents are asleep," he replied, matching her sharp whisper. Felicia looked back at her parents, who were visibly peeved.

"Come on Eric, we're going for pancakes!"

"Mmm…pancakes…glarrrrrr…" drooled Homer.

"Bye Felicia!" Marge called.

"Leave your shades open if it's a go, if not, close them," Eric said.

"Okay."

"Okay. See ya!"

"Bye!"

Felicia returned to her parents. She could tell from the look her father was giving her that she would pay dearly for talking to Eric.

Back at the DeGeorge's home, Felicia began to rush up the stairs the minute she was in the door. Her father saw.

"You will stay here," he said, his voice reaching out with its control. Felicia froze, and turned. "You will apologize to your mother and I for your behaviour, then go up to your room and stay there, do you understand?"

"No, I don't. Why?"

"You know perfectly well what this is about!"

"Mom…"

"You were smiling and flirting with that boy!"

Mr. DeGeorge entered the sitting room. He poured himself a glass of scotch, and sat down.

"The Townsheads asked us over for dinner tonight," his wife said as she came in and started dusting. "They're having roast beef."

"Muriel, it is the second Sunday of the month. You know my routine."

"Yes…your charity work in Skid Row."

"Exactly."

That night at seven, a limousine showed up at the DeGeorge's domicile. Mr. DeGeorge, dressed in his very best, bade farewell to his wife, told her that Felicia was not to have any supper that night, and left.

Inside the limousine was Seymour Skinner.

"Hello, Anthony."

"Good evening, Skinner," he said, biting back his contempt.

They stopped next at the Quimby residence, where they picked up Joseph and Freddy Quimby. 'Diamond Joe', as he Joseph Quimby was once known, was looking decidedly downtrodden, his tweed jacket dulled and moth-eaten, his face unshaven and sullen. His nephew Freddy, on the other hand, looked as groomed and clean shaven as ever, though a careful eye would have noticed the poor quality of his shave and manicure, and that his polo, khakis, and v-neck sweater were several years old and beginning to show their age, as was he.

"Er, eh, evening all," Freddy said cheerfully.

"Erm. Eh," his uncle sneered. The former mayor hated all the passengers in the limo, especially Skinner, to whom he had lost the mayoral race years before. He even hated his nephew, who had managed to maintain a degree of luxury despite the family's continued plunge into poverty and social obscurity.

'So, where to fella's?" the driver asked.

"The usual, Ferdinand. Red Light district, adult shops, crack dens, ice cream parlors, the usual," Anthony DeGeorge drawled.

"Will do."

Their night went as every second Sunday had for the past eight months. Mayor, former mayor, former mayor's rich and popular playboy nephew, and wealthy local businessman, all seen as moral leaders, all indulging in the basest of pleasures.

To end their evening, they and the 'lady friends' they purchased downtown headed for the Maison Derriere, Springfield's premiere burlesque parlor. As 'distinguished customers', they were ushered in the back for a private show.

"As you can see, everything is in order," drawled Belle, the parlor's aged matron, "And Layla will be in shortly to provide you boys a little _entertainment_. If you need anything, just give me ring!"

At the main entrance, a man in opera clothes shoved his way to the head of the line and bribed the bouncer with several grimy fifty and twenty dollar bills. He stormed through the old mansion, through the main theatre, the back rooms, and finally came to the back room where the four men were.

"No, no, no! I've told you a thousand times, no! You ain't welcome here! Jus' 'cause my girls dance around in their underwear doesn't mean they're harlots! No, this is a private room!"

But the man would not hear Belle's protests, and kicked open the door. He beckoned the dancer Layla, who smiled coyly and came to him, and strode away with her, only to return seconds later, gesture to the hooker sitting on Anthony DeGeorge's lap, and left. She grinned, looked at Mr. DeGeorge apologetically, and left after him.

"I'm ever so sorry, gentlemen, really I am. That bastard, comin' in here, getting my girls' feathers all ruffled!"

"Who is he?" Mr. DeGeorge asked.

"Pardon, sug?"

"That man…who is he?"

"Hareton Courtley…or 'Lord Courtley', as he calls himself. Pompous jerk from England."

"When'd he come over?" Freddy asked.

"Five, Six years ago. He was some aristocrat's son, but he was disinherited. They say…for celebrating the Black Mass in the family chapel."

There was a brief pause while they mulled over the meaning of what she had said.

"You don't say…" DeGeorge said thoughtfully.

"What does he do?"

"Nothing. Never worked a day in his life, the asshole."

"How does he keep himself then?"

"The girls keep him! My girls! And at the Sapphire Lounge, Girlesque, Florence's, they're crazy about him! Drives them up the walls. If I were religious, I'd say he's possessed. Possessed…of the Devil."

"…You don't say…"


	3. Lord Courtly

Lord Courtley

Outside the Maison Derriere, they found Hareton Courtly waiting for a taxi.

"You there!" Anthony DeGeorge called as he approached him. Courtley turned, saw him, and then smiled a cruel, knowing smile.

"Ah, you. I stole your woman. Well, if it's to be pistols or swords, I have neither."

"No, no. Listen, my friends and I would like to take you out for drinks."

"Oh really? Taxi! We'll go to The Aristocrat. It's the _only_ place!"

At The Aristocrat, the men didn't touch their drinks. They sat, staring at the strange creature that was the Lord Courtley, watching him sip his martini.

"So, let me see if I have understood. Several months ago, you gentlemen formed a little circle dedicated to pursuing illicit and forbidden pleasures whilst maintaining a façade of morality and public uprightness, and, after fulfilling every last perverse fantasy and desire, you find yourselves bored and utterly unsatisfied. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"And you think I have the cure?"

"Well…uh…"

"Gentlemen, you've come to the right man. But first, tell me: how far are you willing to go?"

"As far as possible," DeGeorge said after some consideration.

"Yes."

"Oh, yeah, sure."

"Within reason!" Skinner added.

Courtley leaned in, his brow furrowed.

"Would you be willing…to sell your souls to the Devil?"

The very request was perplexing.

"What, exactly, would that entail?" Skinner asked, his logical mind not comprehending.

"Exactly what it sounds like it does! Sell your souls to the Devil! In exchange, you will have everything you desire! Money, love, power, happiness! Everything you desire!"

The four men looked to one another, conferring without words.

"Yes."

"Good! I'll need one thousand, two hundred fifty dollars…from each of you."

They began to scoff and mumble, believing their one hope to have been revealed as a mere charlatan.

"No, no, no, not for me. To purchase what we need for the ritual! Meet me at the Little Shoppe of Evil this Thursday at ten p.m., and there we'll purchase our supplies."


	4. The Little Shop of Evil

The Little Shoppe of Evil

Thursday night, ten p.m. Seymour Skinner, Anthony DeGeorge, Freddy Quimby, and Joseph Quimby stood on the corner across from the Shop of Evil ('Your One-Stop for Evil!'). They shielded their faces with scarves, hats, and the collars of their long coats. They felt naked and exposed, their thin veneer of uprightness one encounter away from destruction. They waited, feeling like total fools, for Hareton Courtley.

Five minutes after the hour, Lord Courtley arrived, in his usual formal attire.

"You're late, Courtley."

"Sorry, sorry, ever so sorry." he breathed, surveying them with gleaming eyes. "You needn't have waited out here in the cold all this time…or did you think I wasn't coming."

"We were beginning to doubt…" Skinner growled.

"Well, come on then!" he said in seductive tones, and he lead them across the street.

The Shop of Evil was, as its name clearly indicated, a place of evil. Shelves of shrunken heads stood beneath the flickering lamplight, their faces bearing grimaces of pain for all eternity. Dusty cases held talismans, amulets, and charms, emblazoned with various dark symbols, alongside badgers' teeth, snakes' eyes, and the shriveled feet of vultures. In the cabinets and cases, strange potions and elixirs sat congealing in glass jars and miniature cauldrons.

A small, simpering man came shuffling out of the back of the store. He looked at Lord Courtley.

"Oh, its you. Get out, Mr. Chen says he doesn't want you in his store!"

"I'm here to buy this time, Gilligan, and I have money."

Beat.

"Cash money?"

"Coin of the realm, greenbacks, moolah…money. Gentlemen, each of you have your share?"

They nodded, and produced their payment from inside their coats. DeGeorge pulled out his billfold, and removed several crisp hundred-dollar bills. He flicked them, and handed them to Courtley. Skinner opened his coat, pulled up his shirt, and opened the traveller's wallet he had strapped to his abdomen. He took out a mixture of hundreds, fifties, and twenties, and stuffed them into his hand. Freddy Quimby, grinning proudly, dispensed several neat rolls of hundreds and fifties. Joseph Quimby looked about morosely. He emptied his wallet, then proceeded to hand over the assorted loose bills in his pants pockets. Finally, he opened his coat, and handed over several bags filled with rolls of quarters and loose Sacagawea dollar coins.

Courtley collected all the money in a large burlap sack marked with a large dollar sign, then handed it over to Gil.

"Bring it!" he hissed. Gil looked at the bag, at Courtley, then at the four, and at the bag once more, then left nodded and retreated into the back room. He returned with a large oak box, which he set on a nearby display case. He took a bronze key from his pocket, and, inserting it into the lock on the box, turned it. The latch clicked, and he opened the box.

Inside the box was what appeared to be a mass of blood red fabric.

"Er, uh, what's all this?" Joe Quimby asked.

"These were the belongings of the most evil man who ever lived-C. Montgomery Burns!" Gil said in a frightened whisper. Courtley pulled the cape out of the box and set it aside.

"His cape…his cape clasp…the signet ring of the house Dracula, the Black Ring, worn by Dracula, and Burns, said to be a gift from the Devil himself…and…" he stopped, holding up a bottle filled with red powder.

"What is it?"

"The blood of Mr. Burns!" Gil hissed.

"It's…its just red powder…" Anthony DeGeorge said.

Gil seemed to have just snapped out of a daze.

"Y-yes, yes of course…powder…"

"We'll take it!" Courtley said, throwing the items back in the case and snapping it shut.

"May the Devil take good care of you," Gil whispered, his upper lip curling. He shuddered and retreated once more into the depths of the store.


	5. Vampire Ressurection

Vampire Resurrection

St. Jude's Catholic Church had long been abandoned. Outside the city limits, within the couple or so square miles that where always being shifted between Springfield, Shelbyville, and the two counties in which the cities rested. It was once a busy little parish church in a growing part of the town. Oil had been discovered south of Springfield in 1917, and the town grew swiftly in that direction. The oil dried suddenly in '29, and the Depression soon followed. The jobs were in the city, in the plants and factories, at the port and the army and navy bases. The region became little more than a ghost town. St. Jude's fell into disrepair; moss covered its exterior and dusty and spiders its interior. It rested for years like a ghostly stone ship adrift in a sea of tombstones and mausoleums.

A black sedan pulled up outside the misty church yard. A group of four men in long coats exited; one carried a heavy leather case, which he swung as he walked. The hinge creaked, making the party's members ever more anxious. The creaking became a snap, and the case fell with a tinkling.

"Moron!" Quimby Sr. growled. Skinner grinned sheepishly, then frowned. He picked up the case, returned to the car, and sped away. The other three continued on through the chill graveyard. They felt as though intruders upon a sacred, silent rite. They thought the ghosts of the departed to be hiding somewhere in the mist, watching them hatefully, as they brought evil to their place of slumber.

As they neared the church, their dread intensified. The livid faces of the Gothic gargoyles leared down at them, their lolling tongues mocking them for their folly. They saw dim, flickering lights coming from the inside.

They found the door ajar. They paused, looking to one another to see who would be mad enough to open it completely, and enter. Anthony DeGeorge, his weariness with his companions' cowardice overcoming his own fear, shoved the door open, and marched in. The two Quimbys exchanged nervous looks, and followed him in.

The church had long been empty. Vines crawled up and down the tall pillars, and weeds sprouted from the cracks in the floor. In the rafters, they heard the fluttering of half-asleep birds. The candles in the front chandelier had been replaced with short, black tapers, and two sets of larger black candles burnt in the gold holders on and beside the altar. The altar itself was draped with a long black cloth embroidered in silver with obscene and demonic symbols. The crucifix was covered with an enormous black tapestry, depicting an enormous goat astride a broken cross, amongst strange runes and numbers. And there, standing before the altar with a look of satanic glee, stood Lord Hareton Courley.

"You have them, then?" he asked, his voice echoing in the high ceiling, scattering the nesting pigeons.

"Um, no, Skinner dropped them, but he went to go get some replacements."

Courltey's face contorted with rage, but he answered not. Skinner came running in with a box of Dixy cups.

"What the hell is this!" Freddy asked.

"I said glasses, wine glasses, goblets, not stupid paper cups!"

"It was all I could afford! Between keeping up a household of five and paying my mother for food and lodging…"

"Oh, damn it all, never mind!" Courtley growled, ripping open the box, scattering several paper cups. He handed one to each of them, took one for himself, and tossed the remainder into the empty pews. "Oh, here!" he said, thrusting his cup at DeGeorge. He stomped over to the altar, and pulled a large duffel from beneath the covered altar. From it he withdrew a golden chalice, a silver knife, a censor, a barren cross, and the leather case the four had purchased the night before. He set them all upon the altar. He took the censor, opened it, and, once lit with a match from his pocket, closed it. He stepped back from the altar, and shook the censor back and forth, scattering the clouds of smoke. He shook it forward, left, and then right, while raising the cross upside down.

"Spirits of earth, of air, of wind, of sea, of flame and shadow,

I implore thee,

I beg thee,

I ask thee,

I command thee to come forth so that I may do my master's bidding!

Prince of Darkness, lord of despair, hear us!"

He returned to the altar, set both cross and censor aside, and opened the leather case. With one grand motion, he swept the black cape from its case and fastened it. He took out the golden clasp, and hooked it on. He set the red signet ring upon his right index finger, then, raising his left hand to the black tapestry, set the black ring upon his left ring finger. He made a horned salute with his right hand. He removed the glass vial, opened it, and filled his small paper cup to the brim with red powder. He looked at what powder remained in the vial, and frowned. He sealed it, and set it back in the box. He took the knife, and removed it from its silver sheath. He held up his left palm, and drew the blade across it slowly, letting out a hissing gasp. Squeezing tight, he trickled a few drops into the golden chalice. He turned. The four gasped. He strode forth, holding his Dixy cup in one hand, chalice in the other. He tipped some powder into each of the four's paper cups. Then, he tilted the chalice, and let a single drop of his blood spill into his cup.

There was a roar like a mighty wind. The nesting birds awoke and flew about in terror. Lightning flashed, though there had been no clouds in the sky when they had arrived. The group watched in horror as the powder absorbed the drop of blood, then liquefied, swelling to the brim. Courtley poured some blood into Skinner's cup, then the Joe's, then Freddy's, and finally, Anthony DeGeorge's. DeGeorge let out a little gasp as the blood rose over the brim and spilled onto his hand.

"Now…drink it!"

The four hesitated. The younger Quimby looked at his uncle. Joe bit his lip. DeGeorge seemed petrified, while Skinner seemed to be teetering on the brink of action.

"I said drink it!"

They exchanged looks, saying silently 'I will, after you'.

"Didn't you hear me! I said drink it!"

DeGeorge looked up at Courtley.

"You insult the master! Drink!"

"You drink it then!"

Courtley sneered. He raised the cup, and gulped its contents down. He coughed, then grinned. He coughed once more, then again, and again. He seized his chest and screamed, then fell to the floor, writhing in agony.

"H-help…m-me…! Help…!"

"He's done for!" Freddy screamed.

"What do we do?"

"Stomp him!"

"Good idea!"

They proceeded to kick and stomp Courtley, dashing his grasping hands and crushing his wrists. Anthony grabbed Courtley's walking stick, and began to beat him with it. Suddenly, Courtley let out a gasp, and rolled over on his back like a dead cockroach. The four men looked about, then ran.

Courtley's body lie on the cold ground. Blood and saliva trickled from his lips. He seemed dead. Within him, the vampiric blood spread like a liquid cancer, conquering his veins and overwhelming his mortal blood. He began to swell. His skin hardened like a shell, a crysalis. It cracked! Blood red eyes gleamed from his sockets.

Charles Montgomery Burns stood upon the ashes of what was once Hareton Courtley. His face was pale, his hair dark as iron. He spread his black cape like wings and proclaimed:

"They have betrayed me. They have destroyed my servant. They will be destroyed!"


	6. Saturday Afternoon

Saturday Afternoon

Eric and Felicia stood in the Kwik-E-Mart, slurping their cherry squishees. They heard the rumble of engines, and saw Arnie Skinner pull up in his blue truck, Theresa Quimby in the front seat. He parked and Theresa, John, Arlene, and he hopped out. They ambled in, said hello, bought some squishees and sodas, and joined Eric and Felicia by the game machines in the corner.

"So, Fel, how's yer dad doin'?"

"Not good. I don't want to talk about it."

"That bad huh?"

"Have you asked him about the party yet?"

"No. I'm worried what he'll say if I do."

"Aside from the usual?"

"Yeah."

"You goin', Simpson?"

"Oh? I haven't been invited."

"Oh don't worry, you will," Theresa said knowingly. Despite her family's fall from prominence, she remained one of the most popular girls at school.

John Quimby got out some quarters and put them in the machine, and played 'Devil's Advocate'. Felicia's watch alarm bleeped.

"Uh oh. I told my dad I was buying his Prince Albert. I gotta get home."

She kissed Eric on the cheek quickly.

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

"See you later!"


	7. The First

The First

Felicia changed into her orange party dress. Eric had called her the night before, and told her that he had been invited to the Allen's' party. He said that he would be by at nine to pick her up-at the front door if her dad said 'yes', at her window if he said 'no'. Earlier that day she told him that her dad had forbidden her to go, but that she was going all the same.

At nine sharp, she heard something hit the window. She opened the shade, and saw Eric, standing underneath her window, holding several extra pebbles in his hand.

"I'll be right down!" she mouthed excitedly, nodding furiously to show that all was well. She rushed to her mirror, to make certain that her makeup was right, then opened the window. She climbed down the trellis and into the garden. She kissed Eric.

"But soft, what light from yonder window breaks!" he laughed.

The set off together down the moonlight garden path. There were almost to the gate when they heard the distinct _click-shik_! of a shotgun being cocked.

"So…headin' of to have a little fun, eh?" They jumped, and saw Mr. DeGeorge sitting in a bench swing, whittling, a shotgun under his arm.

"Daddy!"

He stood up, dropping knife and whittle work, and pumped the shotgun a second time.

"You get your hands off of my daughter and get the hell off my property right now, child! And you, girl, you're grounded. Grounded, forever!"

He pumped the shotgun once more. Eric dashed off, trying to hide his tears.

"Eric, come back!"

"I think not. You…go to your room, and get out of that dress. You're not leaving that room until Monday morning!"

Felicia looked at him, no tears in her eyes. She felt nothing but hate for the man she once called her father. She scowled, and ran back up to her room.

Felicia tried for hours, but was unable to sleep. The moonlight was maddening, aggravating her like a tiger in a cage is aggravated by noisy, smelly tourists laughing and dangling food just out of reach.

There was a crack at the window pane. She sat up in bed, her delicate orange dress wrinkled from being rolled about in. She tiptoed to the window, and looked out upon the lunar garden below. She saw a small, slight figure standing beneath a rose-covered arch. She scarcely believed her eyes. She cast a look over her shoulder at the locked bedroom door, then opened the window and climbed down the trellis.

Anthony DeGeorge sat straight up in his bed, cocking his shotgun as he did so. He got out of bed, and raced down the hall to his daughter's room. After trying the door, he took a few steps backward, then threw himself into the door, breaking it open. He found the room empty, and the window open. A slight breeze fluttered the curtains. Cursing under his breathe, he turned and raced down the stairs and into the garden.

He stomped through the silvery garden, his footsteps crackling in the gravel. He heard a noise near the fountain, and, raising his shotgun, rushed towards it. He came to the open area by the fountain, but no one was there. A wolf howled in the distance. The wind blew, bringing with it a smell like rotting flesh.

DeGeorge turned, inexplicably, and saw a dark figure standing on the garden wall. He could see no features except his eyes, his red, glowing eyes. He heard footsteps behind him. He was too afraid to look, but knew that he had to. He looked over his shoulder, and caught a brief glimpse of his daughter. She was holding a shovel like a baseball bat. He looked up at the dark figure. The specter raised his right hand, then, with a determined twist of the wrist, made a thumbs down. DeGeorge felt something strike the back of his head. He staggered forward, stars blinking in his eyes. Another hit, to his lower back. He dropped his shot gun, then another, almost immediately, to the knees, causing him to fall to the crowd. He looked up at his daughter, and saw the look of mad glee in her eyes. The shovel struck him across the forehead, cutting a deep gash.

Felicia proceeded to smash her father across the back with the broad side of the shovel. He crawled along the ground, murmuring indistinct pleas of mercy. He tried to pull himself up on the wall. He tried to look up at the thing standing on the wall, to beg for mercy. The shovel caught him on the nose. Blood spilled into his mouth. He couldn't breathe. The shovel was being pressed against his throat, crushing the fragile larynx.

Mr. DeGeorge slid to the ground. Felicia cast aside the shovel, then knelt, looking up at the dark figure on the wall with religious admiration.

Burns bared his teeth and growled "The First!"


	8. Crime Scene

Crime Scene, and An Unsubtle Inclusion of Unnecessary Guest Characters

Eric arrived at the DeGeorge home the next morning, to find it sealed off with yellow police tape and surrounded with police and ambulance staff. He dashed about, trying to get an answer. No one spoke to him. Finally, he found Dolph.

"Dolph!"

"Huh? Oh, hey kid."

"What happened?"

"Been a murder. Mr. and Mrs. D."

"Where's Felicia?"

"Don't know."

"Okay boys, take the bodies away!" Ralph Wiggum ordered in his shrill voice.

"Right, Chief."

"This is Kent Brockman here, with a special report. Muriel DeGeorge, the wife of local resident Anthony DeGeorge was found murdered in his garden this morning by her gardener, who, though available for comment, does not seem to speak English. The body of her husband, Anthony DeGeorge, an executive at a local stock brokerage, was discovered later in their garden."

"Though the police are giving out very few details, they have said that the murders were 'grisly' and 'yucky-yuck', so much so that detectives from the New York Special Victims Unit were brought over to aid in the investigation. Though the exact nature of the murders remains unknown to the media, I can tell you this much: it must be pretty sick."

_Down at the forensics lab…_

"Detectives Benson, Stabler, SVU."

"Oh, the New Yorkers, come on in," Dr. Hibbert crooned. "As you can see, Mr. DeGeorge died of asphysiation due to a crushed larynx. Huh he he heh!"

"What's so funny?" snapped Stabler.

"Ah, nothing, I just laugh for no reason every now and then." He leaned in dramatically. "It's the only thing keeping me from losing my nerve when dealing with the grim specter of death! Heh he he hee!"

"Awright, what else?"

"Well, the bruises, cuts and lacerations were matched to a shovel found near the crime scene. The blade was covered with blood, and, though DNA tests will take a while, preliminary tests show that the blood matches Mr. DeGeorge's type." He shook his head, the pulled the sheet back over the chalky face. "Now, the wife, she's the one who brought you guys out here." He pulled the sheet back to reveal her face and neck. "She died shortly after her husband, from severe blood loss. As far as we can tell, the blood was drained from her body through four small puncture wounds, two over the carotid artery, two over the jugular vein. Nearly all over her blood was drained from her body."

Stabler nodded. His partner asked,

"Is there any sign of sexual trauma?"

"None at all, to the husband or the wife."

"Were any hairs, or bodily fluids discovered at the scene of the crime?"

"None aside from the victims', but we're still sorting out all the fingerprints."

"Okay, thanks a lot."

"What do you think, Olivia? Vampire, blood fetish?"

"I don't know, the wife-maybe, but husband, just seems to brutal. I mean, all his blood was either in his body or on the ground. If you're a blood-drinker, why waste the blood?"

"Maybe a strictly heterosexual male vampire, or lesbian one?"

"Maybe. But the husband was killed first, and then the wife. And the daugther's missing, no signs of a struggle or forced entry."

"You think maybe she did it?"

"I don't know. Let's talk to a few of her friends and teachers, see if they can shed any light on this."

They interviewed the Simpsons at their home.

"She was always very polite. Sweet little girl," Marge stated.

"Were you very close to Felicia?" Stabler asked Eric. He hesitated, looking at his feet.

"We were…going out, I guess, for some time. I mean, I…knew her since I was in kindergarten. We grew up tohether. Her dad never liked me though." He looked up, blinking back tears. "Do you think she's alive?"

Stabler paused, pursing his lips. "Maybe."


	9. The Second

The Second

The mourners walked and grieved. Slowly , they trudged their way out from beneath the shadow of the tall oak trees, leaving the DeGeorges to their eternal slumber. Benson and Stabler walked with the slow pace of the group, but their faces bore no grief, affected or actual. They remained official and icy, emotionally separate from the others.

Theresa Quimby moved along, head down. She didn't really know Felicia's parents, but assumed that they were people of an average level of decency, and found it hard to imagine why anyone would wish to kill them. Her thoughts were of Felicia, who still was missing.

A hiss from a nearby hedge caught her attention. She dropped, as if to tie a shoe, letting the others pass her by. She crawled over closer, and saw a face peering from the bushes.

"_Felicia!_"

"Shhh!"

"Oh-my-God! Where have you been?"

"I'll tell you later!"

"What happened? Did you escape? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm fine! Listen: meet me in the park tonight. I have to tell you something very important. Come alone."

"What? Why?"

"You'll see. Tonight, after dark. I need you to come, Theresa."

"Oh…okay."

"Theresa!"

"Er, um, come on, I want to get to the, uh, party."

Theresa turned to her parents, cast a quick glance back at Felicia, nodded, and ran off.

That night, Theresa found herself in the park. She couldn't figure out why she didn't tell anyone of her meeting with Felicia at the graveyard. _Perhaps, _she thought, _Felicia did it. Then why didn't I bring someone with me? She asked me to come alone…why?_

Felicia appeared from behind a tree.

"Hullo Theresa."

"Feli! What's going on?"

"I wanted to show you something. There's someone you should meet."

"Who?" Theresa asked, a thousand terrifying nightmare possibilities playing behind her eyes.

"Look," she said, pointing into the darkness. A tall, thin figure appeared. "The master!"

Burns emerged from the darkness, his face a long-nosed skull in the moonlight. Theresa began to step away, but the fear was too much, and she froze to the spot. Burns came up to her; her brushed her cheeks with his skeletal hands. Theresa shivered. Felicia hung back, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. Burns tilted her head to the left, holding it in his hand. He looked over at Felicia, grinning. Her opened his mouth, unhinging the jaw like a serpent. His lisp retracted; his fangs grew. His eyes glowed blood red as he moved in. Theresa screamed, kicked and whimpered. Burns drank. Felicia steadied herself against a tree. Theresa dropped to her knees. Burns stopped. He held up his hand palm up, and drew his long, clawed fingertip across its surface. Dark, cold blood came to the surface. He held it before Theresa's nose. She shuddered. He seized the back of her head and pressed it to the blood. He rubbed the bloody palm over her lips. She was crying. Satisfied, he tilted her head back, bit down once more, and drank until her head slowed.

At the Quimby home, Janet Letoille, Fred Quimby's wife, rushed to and fro, calling for her daughter. Her husband's car pulled up in the driveway.

"Er, eh, what's goin' awn?" he awsked…sorry, he _asked_ (stupid infectious dialect).

"Theresa isn't here!"

"Where is she?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, uh, don't panic. She could be out with Johnny!"

"I called him! He hasn't seen her since school ended!"

John Quimby pulled up outside the house.

"Johnny!" Freddy called from the door.

"Er, eh, whatdya want?"

"We hawven't seen your sista! Look out, in the back, see if see has fallen asleep in the, uh, treehouse!"

"Er, fine!" he said. He tromped out to the backyard.

The Quimby home had once been but one of the houses the family owned in town, but financial circumstances required them to liquidate their assets. Now, former mayor's son lived in one of their old houses, and the ex-mayor lived in his penthouse apartment.

"Theresah! Get your arse down from there!"

There was a fluttering sound behind him that made John Quimby jump.

"Here I am, brother!" she whispered airily.

John entered the house through the back door. He walked through the kitchen into the sitting room. His mother was lying on the couch, arm over her eyes, a cold compress on her forehead, while his father paced back and forth.

"Well, was she out there, or should I, um, call the police?"

John said nothing, but moved in closer.

"Er, um, what's going on. What's so funny?"

John raised his hand, a meat cleaver clenched in his hand. He brought it down on his father's head. Janet heard a muffled gasp and a thud. She tried to sit up, but felt a great weight upon her chest. She felt a hands around her wrists. She opened her eyes, a saw two gleaming red eyes looking back. John watched in horror. Her felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned, but saw no one. When he turned back, he saw his sister. Her eyes were yellow, catlike. Her face contorted, her features became fierce and bestial. She opened her mouth, revealing long, canine fangs. John managed only a "Oh…"

"The Second!"


	10. The Third

The Third

Joe Quimby rapped furiously. Finally, mayor Skinner opened the door.

"Ah. What's this about?"

"My nephew was just murdered! That makes, ah, two of the four of us! I can see the pattern."

Skinner looked coolly concerned.

"What do you propose as a course of action?"

"We go back to the old church."

"Why?"

"Courtley may nawt be dead! If he survived, then he could be behind this! Aht the very least, we can get the body and bury it. The police are, uh, everywhere! We can't let them stumble onto our dark secret."

Skinner's upper lip twitched.

"Fine. Later, around sundown."

The two arrived at the derelict church after five. Quimby had brought a gun with him, in case Hareton Courtley was _not_ dead. They found the church as they had left it, empty and grave, with the silver chalice and ceremonial knife still resting upon the altar. The only thing missing was Hareton Courtley.

"Now," Skinner said, trying to reassure Quimby and himself, "Its possible the hobbos found him, and...buried him under a bridge somewhere."

Quimby looked around, then saw something that had definitely not been there the last time: his niece.

"Oh my God!" he screamed. He rushed over to her. Her skin was cold and pale; her pulse was silent. "No!...no...!" he sobbed. Skinner remained calm and analytical. He noticed that Theresa's lips were an unnaturally bright red, while the rest of her body was a pale blue. Then he saw the small fangs protruding from beneath those ruby lips.

"Joe...Joe! Look! She's...a vampire!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Her mouth! The fangs!"

"Wha-?"

Skinner rushed over to a nearby pew. He broke loose a board and stood at the edge of the coffin in which Theresa lay.

"What are you doing? Get away from her!"

"I have to do this Joe. Its the only way."

"The hell it is!" he said drawing his pistol.

"Joe, don't-!"

Quimby fired. His shot grazed Skinner's side, drawing bright red blood. He cocked the pistol and took aim. Skinner staggered out, clutching his side and moaning. Quimby dropped his pistol and slumped to his knees, crying. Outside, the sun had just passed below the horizon. Behind him materialized Burns, eyes aglow. Quimby sensed the air grow chill he turned, and clamboured to his feet. Hearing movement behind him, Quimby turned. Theresa was sitting up in her coffin, with a look of mad glee onher face.She seized her uncles head, and gave it a sharp twist. His neck snapped, and he fell dead.

"The Third!"


	11. The Fourth

The Fourth

Seymour Skinner awoke to find himself amongst the dead. He sat up, his senses dull and his mind distracted. He was in the old churchyard, surrounded by weeds and crumbling monuments. He tried to stand, and was met with searing pain in his side. His muscles were torn, and his newly formed scabs cracked as he moved. Setting his resolve to his survival, Skinner stood, hunched over to one side. He staggered off, to warn whoever he could.

Because of his wounds, Seymour had to walk very slowly and carefully. He had awakened at noon, and reached town just barely before nightfall. He knew that he had to get home, and contact the old priest…what was his name? O'Finnegan? O'Flannel? O'Flaherty. He had to reach O'Flaherty and tell him about the vampire…vampires. Where there was one there was always at least two.

He came at last to his home. The absence of cars in the driveway indicated to him that neither Arlie nor his wife Edna were home. He stumbled inside, and into his study. Seated at his desk, Skinner penned his confession; he told of the 'club', and all their deeds, how they met Courtley, how they went to the Little Shoppe of Evil, purchased the blood and artefacts of the vampire C. Montgomery Burns, how they had killed Lord Courtley, and how vampires were now at large in Springfield.

As he finished his confession, he heard the front door close. Rising gingerly, Skinner took the letter and folded it neatly. The study door opened, and Seymour's son, Arlie, did enter.

"Oh good, Arlie. Son, I have a task for you of utmost importance. I need you to go to St. Andrew's Catholic Church and ask whoever is there if Fr. O'Flaherty-" Skinner was again cut short, this time by a kitchen knife to the stomach. "Damn it! Can't a man finish his sente-ach!" he gasped as Arlie twisted the knife. Skinner collapsed, the knife jutting from his stomach.

Burns materialized from the shadows.

"The Fourth!"


	12. Burns

Burns: Son of Hell

Burns strode along the river's edge, followed by his vampiric spawn, Theresa and Arlene.

"Blah! Curse that Edna Krabbappel! If she hadn't shown up with that bag of fresh garlic from the farmer's market, my revenge would have been complete! Now my fourth victim is alive, my one good patsy near death thanks to your appetite, Arlene, and both are beyond my reach in St. Aloysius' Catholic Hospital!"

"Isn't Felicia still your slave? Why not send her?" asked Theresa

"Fool! Every constable in this county is searching for her! Blah!" Burns grabbed her and seized her throat in his maw. He tore his head away, pulling out her veins and larynx. Blood spurting, she fell to the ground. He pulled her limp figure up, and with a second bite, broke her spinal column, severing her head. Casting the two halves of Theresa aside, he turned on Arlene. She backed away, pleading, begging. Burns' eyes glowed like embers. He seized her in his vicelike grip, staring into her very mind. He hefted her up, and threw her into the river. She was destroyed instantly, reduced to a mere corpse.

"Hmmph!" Burns huffed, then turned and stalked away.


	13. The Discovery

The Discovery

The crowd began to dissipate after the two Skinner men were taken to the hospital. Rumour had it that there was a fight between the two, possibly over a girl, one woman in the crowd whispered. Slowly, the mob dispersed, until only the three Simpsons remained.

"You said that there was something we needed to see, Nelson?"

"Yeah, you might want to come in," he said, lifting up the police tape. He led them to the study. He showed them a note, splattered with blood.

_To Whoever May Read This Note,_

_I would like to confess my guilt in the murders of the DeGeorges, the Quimbys, and my own soul. I killed the first and second indirectly, and share the guilt with many others, but the later I have but myself to blame._

_Let me first state that the culture and religion of America, that is, the America of and like Springfield First Christian Church, is one of appearance over reality, deed over belief, and word over deed. I long ago learned that the ways of sin are easily learned and naturally followed. Vice is an easy seed to plant, and blossoms swiftly, as we live in the ideal climate, and the semblance of morality protects lechery by sheltering the lecher from the slings of those like him, who maintain the illusion of saintliness to protect themselves from those like them._

_Months ago, Joseph Quimby, his nephew Fredrick Quimby, Anthony DeGeorge, and myself found were of like mind and inclination, and, being stifled by rigid dogma, formed a sort of club, devoted to the pursuit of every whim and fantasy that possessed us. At first, we were terrified and repulsed by the manifestations of our own wickedness, but, in time, we came to revel in our wantonness. This stage was all too brief, and we soon passed into boredom, then utter numbness._

_On our last outing, we encountered a man named Hareton Courtley, an illegal immigrant from Britain. A hedonist of the highest degree, he told us that the surest and greatest pleasure would result from our selling of our immortal souls to Satan. Believing Satan to be but a goblin, a chimera to frighten the fool into obedience of those with the power to impose canon, we doubted him greatly. But, wanting desperately the pleasures we had not known for ages, willing to do anything to obtain them, and convinced that it was a small price to pay (if we ever had souls, I thought, we had already lost them!), we agreed. He asked from us each twenty five thousand dollars, to purchase the 'supplies' for the ritual. We went with out money to the Shoppe of Evil, where we purchased from a man named Gil a leather box. Inside were several artefacts said to belong to C. Montgomery Burns, a former local businessman and rumoured vampire, along with a bottle of his dried blood._

_The next evening we met at St Jude's, the abandoned church just outside of town. There, Courtley performed the ritual, but something went terribly wrong. He seemed to be dieing, and we panicked, and killed him. We fled._

_A few weeks later, the members of the circle began to die, one by one, their family members either dieing or disappearing. So, Joseph Quimby and I returned to St. Jude's, where we found the body of Theresa Quimby. I examined her mouth, and found bloodstains and vampiric fangs. I insisted that she be destroyed, but Quimby refused, and drew his gun on me. I fled, wounded._

"We have to get to that church!" Eric rasped.

"No!" Marge ordered. "Second rule of Vampire Hunting: _'Never pursue a master class or higher vampire after nightfall_'."

"But Felicia still might be alive! I have to save her!"

"Now Eric, in the unlikely event Burns hasn't killed her yet, or turned her into one of his UnDead brides, she'll still be alive after we gather the Hunters and organize our attack. If he hasn't, she's either resting in peace, or is a walking dead and all you could do for her is drive a stake through her heart and cut off her head!" Homer explained, trying to be comforting.


	14. Finale

Eric and Mr. Burns

The priests of St. Andrews no longer lived in the old brick house next to the church. Though the official reason for its demolition was 'mold contamination', few did not know that it was the strange, supernatural occurrences there, which had prompted many priests to request a transfer from the parish and caused one elderly vicar to literally die of fright. But, during its years of service, the old house had served not just as a home for the shepherds of the flock, but a covert armoury stocked with weapons to combat the UnDead.

Eric arrived in the late afternoon, when the winds were rustling the dieing Fall leaves. The windows were dark and boarded. A sign had been hammered into the browning lawn: 'Condemned'. Eric dismounted his bicycle and walked it over to the bushes, where he stowed it safely out of sight. He looked over his shoulder, then walked cautiously to the door, a blue duffel slung over one shoulder. He tried-it was locked. _No matter…luckily Bart taught me a thing or two about prying and jimmying…_ Eric set the bag down, looking around to check if anyone was watching him. He opened the bag and pulled out 'Old Blue', one of Bart's old crowbars from his wilder days. Eric rammed the straight end of the bar into the crack of the door and pulled. The door resisted, but, gradually, the wood and metal began to give. The fibres split, and the door swung open. Picking up his bag, Eric entered.

In the kitchen Eric found a trap door hidden beneath a filthy rug. He opened it, and followed the creaking wooden steps it opened onto down into the darkness. Eric took out his lighter so he could see. At the bottom of the stairs Eric found another door, a heavy one made of steal. _The old bomb shelter…_Eric opened the door, and stepped inside the dusty confines of the man-made cavern. Spying an old lamp, Eric took his light to it. The lantern lit, Eric could see the shelves of books and archaic weapons. Bows and crossbows, ranging from simple wooden models to modern compounds made of space-age materials, swords from every age and continent; guns of various calibres and models. But Eric had no need for such. His goal was not to slay hundreds of the Devil's legions. That he would leave for the adults, the priests, those whose duty was to defeat the vampires. His only thought was Felicia. If it would guarantee her life, Eric would assassinate the president himself. Setting his bag on protruding shelf, Eric set to filling it with what he needed. He remembered what Fr. O'Flaherty had told him, when he asked how Burns was able to enter the chapel of Castle Dracula, even though it was a consecrated.

"True, the vampyr can not enter a sacred place-such would kill him in an instant. But he can, sometimes, if the place 'as been descecrated by evil deeds. A church, for example, if no longer used for the Mass, can be made habitable if all relics and blessed objects are removed, and the Black Mass celebrated there. But a thing once blessed is God's fore'er, and all it needs is a bit o' remindin'."

Eric placed several crucifixes in the bag, along with several white candles and gold-plated candlesticks. A white altar cloth, a censer filled with incense, and a vial of holy water. He zipped his bag up. With a quick look around the strange and empty room, he extinguished the lamp and left.

Eric raced along the river's edge as quickly as he could. The weary sun was lazing lower and lower in the sky. As he rounded a bend, coming to a spot where the river was at its slowest, he saw a terrifying sight: a corpse floating in the river. Leaping from his bike, his bag flying to the ground, Eric ran into the river. He grabbed the body, turning it over, to find that it was Arlene, Arnie Skinner's sister. Biting back his terror, Eric drug her back to the shore. He laid her body out, arms folded across its chest. He shook his head, his heart spilling like a goblet of molten lead in his bosom, and he crossed himself. He took up his bag, and set off once more.

By the time that Eric reached the church the sun was already setting. He slammed the doors behind himself, and set a large crucifix in the handles. He stormed to the front of the altar, and looked up. The hideous black banner hung threateningly, the eyes of the hideous silver goat seeming to stare right through him. Eric set down his duffel and ripped the black cloth from the altar, sending the silver chalice and knife clattering to the stony floor. Eric opened his bag and pulled out the white, blessed white altar cloth. He laid it neatly over the altar, then knocked the black tapers from their holders, and replaced them with the white. He sent two more candles on the altar in gilded. He walked around the altar, and for a moment stood, transfixed by the strange arras hanging before him. He let out a faint cry and seized it, pulling at it with all his strength, until it tore and fell to the ground, revealing the image of Christ upon the Cross. Eric returned to his bag, and took out the holy water. Muttering 'Name of the Father…Son…Holy Spirit…Father…Son…Holy Spirit' he traced the cross in the air with the bottle until it was empty. He took out the censer, lit it with his lighter, then swung it about, letting the thick fumes rise curling towards the ceiling. He hung the censer on one of the altar rails, then stepped back, marvelling at his work.

"Felicia!" he called out, the echoing walls making his shout sound hollow. "Felicia! It's Eric! Felicia! I'm here for you Felicia! FELICIA!"

The sun passed below the horizon. The bells high up in the bell tower began to clang. A fierce roaring filled the small church, like the wind in the trees during a storm. Eric screamed and clapped his hands across his ears. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the roaring ceased. All was quiet.

"Hello Eric," Felicia purred seductively, stepping out from behind a pillar. Eric turned to see her. Before he could speak, with a rustling of his cape, Burns appeared. Eric looked at him, then leapt for the altar, seizing the crucifix and holding it out at Burns.

Burns hissed and was thrown backwards. He cringing against a pillar, growling and gnashing his teeth, all the while moaning "Put it away! Put it away!"

"You must give that to me! The Master will be angry!" Felicia scolded, trying to wrest the crucifix from Eric's grip.

"You're free, Felicia! You're free to choose-good or evil! You're not his slave anymore!"

"Give it to me! He'll be mad!"

"You aren't one of them yet! You can still choose!"

"He's my master!"

"He is not! He is not!"

"RAAAAAAH!" Burns roared, stepping as close to the crucifix as he could, arms raised over his face. Eric flinched, and Felicia took the opportunity to seize the crucifix from him.

"I got it, Master!"

Burns roared and took Eric around the neck. He lifted him above his head and hurled him headlong into the pews. He dusted off his hands, then made for the door.

"Was that okay? Did I do well, Master?" Felicia asked, running alongside Burns.

"Fah! Stop being so needy! If its one thing I can't stand, it's a co-dependant!" Burns said, knocking her down and striding away. Felicia was stunned. She suddenly remembered all that she had seen, all that she hade been. Her friends, her school…Eric…her family…her…_father_. _Oh God! No! no…! I killed him! I killed my own father!_

Burns reached the door, only to be repelled by the crucifix Eric had set through the handle. He shrieked and ran to the other side of a pillar, placing as much distance and marble between himself and the Cross. Felicia saw this, and realised that she was still holding the crucifix. She threw it at Burns, meaning to hit him with it. Her nerves and hunger made her throw fall short. Burns squeeled. He was trapped between two crucifixes. The main door was the only door he could reach without having to pass the altar, and it was sealed with a cross. He lifted his gaze skyward, and let out a terrible, gurgling scream. He dashed around the corner and up the stairs to the choir loft.

Felicia rushed over to Eric.

"Eric? Eric! Please, wake up!"

"Uhhh…Felicia…"

"GAAAAHHH!"

The two looked and saw Burns standing on the railing of the choir loft. He lept down, tore a pipe from the decrepit organ, and lobbed it at them. They barely moved fast enough to avoid it. Eric reached for his bag and produced another crucifix. He held it up. Burns had already gotten another pipe. He screamed, averting his gaze and throwing blindly. The throw went right over their heads.

"Go Felicia! Run for it!"

"I won't leave you!"

"Go! Get my mom and dad! I can handle him!"

Another pipe, this one clattering at their feet with a strangely musical clang.

"Go!"

Burns had climbed from the choir loft to the windows. He broke the head from an angel and pitched it right at Eric, who escaped receiving concusion by a hair's breadth. Burns raced along the window ledge, until he was directly above the altar. He spread his cape like wings, and prepared to pounce, but suddenly screamed and turned. He was standing in front of a stained glass window depicting the Crucifixion. Letting out a scream of rage, he punched the glass, shattering the image. He began to step out into the cold night air, when he heard a strange sound coming from the church. He saw light radiating from something behind him. He turned. Burns could scarcely believe his eyes.

The church was filled with light. Thousands of candles hung from the ceiling. The red sanctuary candles glowed softly behind its red glass cover. The sound of an organ rose to the ceiling. Incense filled the air. And a voice was calling out.

"_Pater Noster,_

_Qui es en caeli,_

_Sanctificater Nomin Tuum._

_Adveniat regnum tuum,_

_Fiat voluntas tua,_

_Sicut en caeli et en terram._

_Panem nostrum quotidianum, da nobis hodie._

_Et demitte debit nobis sicut et nos dimmitimus debitoribus nostris,_

_Et ne nos inudcas en tentationem,_

_Sed liberas nos a malo,_

Amen."

Burns eyes welled with tears, then blood. With a scream, he fell to the altar. He writhed in pain, blood flowing from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth, bubbling and evaporating when it touched the altar, as water on a stove. His hair thinned and greyed; his nose grew thinner and more distinctly curved. His eyes shrunk and withered into empty sockets. His skin melted from the bone, and bone caught fire as though it were wood. In the end, all that remained was a cape, a chain, and two rings.

Eric and Felicia stood, terrified and bewildered. Eric crossed himself. Felicia looked at him. He nodded. Eric kissed the feet of the figure of Jesus on his crucifix, then set it down on the floor before the altar. He took Felicia's hand, and they left together.


End file.
